


Rabble-Rouser

by experimentaldrama



Category: Gintama
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Mom Otose, Obsession, Organized Crime, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-19
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2018-10-07 13:48:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10361829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/experimentaldrama/pseuds/experimentaldrama
Summary: "And this country is now at peace. Or as much as we can fake it."In the wake of a war, a bartender takes a man dubbed legally dead under her wing and waits to see whether soul can triumph over habit.It just happens, though, that a man cleverly avoiding the Bafuku's radar by a needle's head allows himself to become the target of a massive underground web of tongue-tattooed baddies and hooligans.





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> In which Gintoki becomes obsessed with swords; if only because he's so desperate to protect something, anything. Corny.  
> I hope that you all enjoy!

Takasugi stared down the length of the black hilt, etching the image of its blueish sheen into his mind along with that of his bandaged knuckles gripping it just so, that it nearly trembled. The grey welded blade accompanied that; and his perspective was just so that he only saw its tip. His arm held the blade out horizontally so that, with arm tucked under his chin, he looked like an archer rather than a swordsman.

He felt, rather than heard, his troops finally still behind him; no longer did the ground under his feet roar with their stampede, right left, right left. But he saw only the blade, the metal which stubbornly shone even through the dim, dim light; and the mob of dirty aliens which enveloped his sight, even though they rallied miles away. And still the image of his blade held his gaze fast, focused like he was looking at his lover with steely eyes rather than delight, and alighted his pasty complexion as he slashed hard, the motion cutting the sight of their enemy in halves.

His sword followed as his arm would; it was no more than his arm, no more than a limb of his body, no more than an extension of his person.

A high-pitched wail; it was a second too late for Takasugi to raise a hand for silence, because he hadn't realized that it was a man echoing his call. Then the ragtag Joi, a mix of French, farmers, felons, whoever - but all samurai - raised their shouts to the high, gloomy sky too, their long sleeves shoved downward and arms thrown up.

"So dramatic," Katsura murmured beside him. "A day before death."

 

//

 

“Oh yeah, don’t trust her, kid. She’ll give you food and give you a bath, but she won’t give ya a sword. She’s a witch…Like a grandma who gives too much candy to her grandkids, but then when the time comes, won’t fix dinner. You know that she’s just out to kill you!”

The cat stared up at him again with dark-lined green eyes. Gintoki threw his hands in the air, and its tail twitched. “Look at you! You’ve got grey hairs in that pelt already – “he leaned in closer, still kneeling, and it looked apprehensive all over again – “What has she been feeding ya? Gravel off the street? Acetone? _Vegetables_?”

“You’ve got more grey hair than that cat. A whole head’s full. And you’re a hundred years too early to be calling that cat ‘kid’!” Otose called from the other room. A shiver went up Gintoki’s spine and out, and he widened his eyes at the cat, clearly signaling, _get out while you can!_ But the stupid cat only pushed its behind into the cement.

“And I’ve told you, you rodent, every single day since you arrived. There will be no swords in this household. You’ll scare away my customers! More than you do already. I should kick you out already, you law-breaking freeloader.”

Gintoki narrowed his eyes in fake exasperation. “But you won’t, outta what? The goodness of your heart?” He wished she would kick him out.

“Why can’t you find something productive to do with that life? Maybe if you pasted some makeup on your face and played the part, you could win someone’s sympathy on the street. God knows you’re still skinny enough to pass for an old man.” She jabbed a quick hand into his gut, and he muffled a scream.

“She’s assaulted me!” He grabbed a chair, going through motions faster than anyone could keep up with, and plopped down in it, facing her and frowning. She, in the beginning, had thought his voice would take on some color. It never did. “…Your slop is such crap that I can’t eat. Nothing else to it.”

Otose leaned down, and scraped cut chicken from a wooden board with a stainless-steel knife (one that had hit the rich market years ago, but was top-notch, recent tech in her district). She closed her eyes and sighed, feeling a strand of her hair come loose from its tie.

“…Doesn’t that knife count as a sword, though, old lady?”

She scoffed, the hot air making the black-and-white cat bristle as he crunched. “You’re the most annoying tenant I’ve ever come across. Get a job, asshole. They ain't pretty or fun, but at least you'll have something to do."

He laughed easily. "Tell me something I don't know." He shoved a long, patchy, shawl-ish robe over his shoulder and exhaled, eyeing the door - a menace, an inevitability. 

Otose paused. "You look like a hobo."

 

//

Otose frowned as Gintoki once again exited the room, but she’d neither the energy nor the need to try and bring him back into the bar anymore. Her friend followed her line of vision again and bit his lip as he tried to eat a slice of pineapple alongside his fruity drink. Otose internally kicked herself, for now that she had brought attention to Gintoki it was sure to bring about a discussion.

“When’re you gonna kick him out, Otose?"

Otose made certain to give the linoleum a slippery and long-held glance before her eyes found the unwanted intruder of her peace. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

"I think that you do."

She hoped no blood would drip down her jaw from biting her lip too hard. "I think that you should leave."

It was no admittance of weakness. She hoped he would leave so she would be spared the bad press of smacking a customer. But Otose couldn't help but smile internally; it was, ignoring the implications of his insolence, a fun thing for such a man to think he had a hope of getting information from her.

He backed off. "Otose...ma'am...We've known each other a while." Have we? Otose wondered. "I'm only trying to protect you."

"Are you?" Otose said out loud. 

The man flinched.

She sighed. “He’s just a stray trying to find his way around. I imagine he’ll find a home somewhere – they do, a lot of the time.”

The man leaned against the wall. A minute later he said, evidently given up - which marked him an insolent  _and_ a coward, which was no good - "I'm just sayin', people talk, Otose. You know that better than anyone."

Otose laughed. “Afraid of him? Me too.”

“No!” His stringy hair flapped as he looked left and right. "Just the other day --"

 

“That’s enough,” Otose admonished. “I’m only waiting on him. He barely eats, anyways. Not close to a financial burden. I'm just curious."

"...You always are." The man downed his drink and walked away.

Otose learns, that night, that a man with bleached white hair and cornered animal eyes was seen dragging a shirtless man "lanky from top to bottom" - an innocent man, for sure! the storyteller predicted with wide, troubled eyes as the audience tittered - down an alley and toward the old pier, was the new talk of Kabuki Cho. She is curious, but not surprised, to hear the name spoken aloud of the prime suspect. 

She is even more curious to find the victim.

\--

Gintoki expelled a gust of breath, kicked out onto a corner. “I don’t know how to get a job, though. Do I look in newspapers? Where do I get newspapers? Do I need a bank account? What do I _need_?” He glared at a telephone pole. The telephone pole stared back innocently, glinting with aluminum. He clicked his tongue. “I wouldn’t be caught dead in an office chair, or as a grey factory goon…”

He shook his head and kicked the pole as hard as he could, and it cried out, sliding in on itself. Gintoki ran before authorities could catch up.

“A sword would fix everything,” he lamented, only half-sardonic. A sword was the only way he ever knew.

Scaling the city for hours was easier than trying to approach Otose about getting a job. Here, the lights were on all night, there was no curfew, and there was no right way to speak – no accent that would have one pass as a native. It was worse that he’d been there for so many months and barely seen the lights of the city – they seemed all too blinding and all too unfamiliar, and he hadn’t wanted to leave the turf he knew.

“It’s the habit of every stray to circle its turf. And every man who has seen war knows that little is more important than defending the base.” Otose had told him one night slyly. “But you aren’t a cat – you’re my tenant. And this country is now at peace. Or as much as we can fake it. I’ll have you out and about before the year’s end.”

There was no way to blend in as Otose wanted him to. He was all-exposed and all-ignorant of the culture of this weird, Amanto-stained city. Because he couldn’t help but feel that every bit of his appearance betrayed his background, his history, and his intentions.

“Okay, old lady,” he had told her with no inflection, and her eyebrow twitched. “But you’re mistaken.”

“And why’s that?”

“You’re never defending the base; you’re defending the idea of a base. And ain’t it a world of difference?”

She had looked at him with fondness. "Monkey."

Gintoki finally happened upon a store which, in its window, advertised a giant HELP WANTED sign, in bold black lettering. But of course, it wouldn’t be free pickings – Gintoki cursed at himself for even imagining Otose’s impressed face – there was a crowd, a line, a mesh of people standing like they were at a cosplay convention, they were so diversely dressed.

From one person to the next there was a dull-colored yukuta to a pair of denim jeans, from one person to the next there was a man as old as fifty next to a girl as young as twelve. Every single person needed money, so Gintoki would have to beat every single person – or at least a crowd of ‘em – to get this job. He wasn’t exactly dressed for it; Gintoki approached the line anyways.

Even as he stood in line he was stared at. He overheard a couple of women a few paces ahead of him complaining. “The entire economy is shot,” one rampaged, lanky arms working in circles, attracting too much attention. “The stupid fuckin’ government can’t see that these freeloading samurai are ruining us! And even after they were supposedly completely wiped out! They’re stealing all our money!” For a moment, Gintoki heard Otose’s voice in the brat’s words. But the tone was discordant with the memory.

The other two agreed, one almost brought to tears by her agreement. “You’re so right…” she cried.

Gintoki restrained himself from snickering, and even doubly restrained himself from disciplining them. It was too much a habit to be an enforcer of the rules at the same time a friend of all. But he still couldn’t bring himself to disagree.

He heard their voices direct toward him, and he was sure his hair was a direct cause of the failing economy, his scarred skin an example of the Bafuku’s softness. Yet, for some reason he was sure that he wouldn’t be hired if he stirred a fight in line for the job. He couldn’t bring himself to not even try – it was an insult to an old lady.

There was a collective gasp from the newer additions to the long line as one candidate for the job exited the room looking hopeful, and ushered another man in to the room to be interviewed. In another five minutes, one of the gossiping women went into the room, squaring her shoulders for an imaginary battle.

To sweep the dirty linoleum of the dry-cleaning store was, as of present, the only thing on the minds of any of the people waiting in the line.

After an hour and three quarters, Gintoki was signaled to enter the room of his would-be employer. And Sakata Gintoki was not at all surprised when the employer they all vied for the attention of took one long, drawn-out look at him… and sent him out of the room, with an angry lip and a mocking tone.

As Gintoki exited, sandals kicking up dust at the door, he took great effort to relax his mouth, which was still poised as if to introduce himself.

\--

Gintoki sat at a table set for two most nights. At first, he would cringe every time a couple came over, looking for adequate seating, staring at the wasted seat across from him. Now he only stares into empty space with a false calm. He wonders if anyone buys it; but it doesn’t matter whether they do or not. He fulfills his promises to the owner just by sitting in the room.

He overhears an awkward young flirter, obviously not experienced at any sort of bar but still confident in her heavy charms. She read her lines like a late-night TV program.

“Hey, mind if I sit here?”

“Sure…” he stammered and coughed, clearly just as nervous, eyes wide like bird eggs.

Gintoki tunes out.

\--

It’s cold outside, when Gintoki’s breath turns to ice. He at least has remembered his coat – he’d hate to have Otose miffed at him, tending to a cold. He jumps at each late-night walker.

Watching the Snack Bar all night is a sham, it never helps anything, it only eases cowardly minds. Gintoki doesn’t mind if he becomes a coward, long as it eases his. Maybe a sword wouldn’t fix everything, but he would at least have a place to lean and clutch to.

Time swept by them as if it wanted to call to its own fickleness. How was it that one hour could seem like a month and one month could seem like an hour?

\--

“What is it you like so much about swords?”

“I don’t,” Gintoki murmured absentmindedly, heart more focused on the jar of chocolate chip cookies behind the old lady’s head. He craned his neck to get an eyeful; it was angelic, the way the brown of the dough complimented the brown of the brown of the cabinet.

“What?”

“What?” Gintoki repeated, face lackluster.

“You can’t be an idiot forever, you know.”

“You can’t be old for long, you know.”

“Shut up.” Otose paused. “We’ve talked before about where you come from, and hell if I wanna talk about how you’ve landed here. Why is it that you’re failing to argue now?”

Gintoki didn’t move.

“ _I asked_ ,” said Otose, swatting his head to the floor in a manner too familiar to Gintoki, “Why is it you’re so obsessed with long sticks? Are you insecure?”

“Those are two different questions, old lady,” Gintoki said, making Otose’s hand twitch towards his head once again.

Otose tapped her foot impatiently. She swiped the cookie jar and pushed it into the pantry. Gintoki groaned. Otose hit him.

He met her gaze, finally, and she was humbled by the sight of his eyes.

A deadly stare. “I don’t like swords. But I won’t call myself your bodyguard, as you want, until I’m fit enough to balance someone’s life in the palm of my hand. Listen to me when I speak; if you had then you'd know I sure as hell never will say that I like swords because they’re _shiny_.” He faltered, as if he was a subordinate spoken out of turn and just seen their mistake, lowering his head as if waiting execution; still much too tender toward the woman who’d saved his life to disrespect her. “I’m sorry.”

Otose rolled her eyes.This was a man who punished himself much more than anyone on the outside could. “No, by any means, go on.” When he didn’t speak, still making his moves as if to offer his head and neck, she went on. “I see. Well, you have my ear.”

“Am I the big bad homewrecker?”

“For that, there would have to be a home.”

“Don’t you like it here?”

“If I was that frail, I couldn’t have survived in this place to begin with.”

“I can’t protect you without a sword.”

“And here I was, thinking you liked a pretty mantle for your wall. You’re dangerous enough without one. Fine. You’re free to do whatever you want... Go fetch as many shiny sticks as you’d like... I’ve figured you out. I was worried I never would.”

“Have you?” He sounded distractedly curious. She hated the feeling that this conversation would be their last. She imagined him disappearing in the middle of the night; throwing bodies in lakes and oceans to his heart's content. Otose wondered herself if she believed that, or if she was just making sense of it in her head.

"You really act like a dunce. I don't know how someone like you could be my guard dog."

"I don't know, either."

He turned his back as a robot would and walked out of the room without any further pleasantry, and behind him Otose looked on with a gaze much too knowing for a woman that Gintoki had met six months ago. She brings out a lighter.

\--

Gintoki wasted no time. To him, having a sword in hand was the only way he’d ever known, and he was desperate to satiate this hunger. He had never been a man to hold himself back when he wanted to eat, and denying himself a sword on Otose’s word felt like a domestication, like a power over him that even he himself did not hold. Swords were his only power to protect what needed to be protected, weren’t they? He entered a fast-moving line of colorfully dressed people.

A dozen words flew in and out of his head at his command. It wasn't so much the act of being allowed to have a sword. It was like the floodgates had opened; he imagined every kind of sword, long, thin, whetstones, hilts, gold paper, what kind of sword, what kind of sword. It was the bridge to a bridge to a bridge, connecting him to home base.

Gintoki couldn’t remember any differently than that fact, and it scared him; how long had it been since he had hurt someone? His present was erased by knowing the past.

Gintoki couldn’t remember anything – where had he come from, from here, and where did he want to go, from here, and who was he with, and how did he meet them? His future was erased by remembering the present.

Everything was indistinct except that longing to be with what had _worked_ , that sword which had always accompanied him, he knew for a fact.

And that sword would be used to protect Otose; that was it, he realized quickly. That was who he was duty-bound to protect.

And, much as he owed his life to the old lady, he could not bear it any more. Wasn’t being unarmed just offering her life to Amanto? Old lady. Acts young. And while he knew it’d be easy to get a sword from a dealer, and made him sound like a nicer guy, it was just quicker to rob someone.

He hid himself in the shadows – he focused on who would hold a sword, since the stupid and the in-power were the only ones who held blades anymore. He was glad to fit himself into the former of the two categories, if only he could have one within his grasp.

And he figured he’d have to rob a rabble-rouser after all; since rebels tended to walk alone, so as not to arouse suspicion, but obedient dogs always moved in packs.

Running a hand through his hair, he made a mental note to find scissors to trim it later, so it’d stop curling over his eyes whenever he finally decided to get to work. Work. He was ecstatic like never before to hear the word, because work was not really work when you were yourself.

He wasn't himself!

It was the sole explanation.

It was not long until he spotted a lump in the coat of a scruffy looking bearded man – the guy looked like an asshole anyway. Gintoki reentered the crowd behind him. There’d be no need of caution around such fodder. They entered a slow point in the crowd, so Gintoki took a beeline behind a building and through an alley so he emerged in front of him, carefully placing himself back into the crowd.

He even slips in some conversation to his person, speaking to a random man out on the street – the man only looks confused – to make sure his too-silent figure wouldn’t be a dead giveaway.

“Isn’t the weather nice? Aren’t the bees dying? Isn’t that girl cute?”

It was quick work – all Gintoki needed was to slip by him.

It was a rather large object to pickpocket, but it was all in the head. Get them distracted with some other thing. His hand hovered over the sword in a slow-moving second before gripping it. 

His mind went black, fuzzing up like the small TV's they'd watched for news of public declarations, back then.

He only tuned back in when he was alone, blissfully alone. Gintoki plopped himself in a lightless alley, the sheathed sword placed gingerly in his lap like a braying animal he would have to coax into the open. Gintoki considers nothing but holding it. 

“What an ugly looking hilt,” he labored. “I wonder where I can take this to practice. Ain’t no training areas near here – at least not legal ones. Definitely tax-evader instructors.”

He eagerly took the blackish sheath in his left hand and the ugly hilt in his right, uncovering the blade which clearly wasn’t well tended and then –

A rush of nausea escaped his stomach, running over his diaphragm and through his throat, going down his knees and through his toes. He tried to exhale and contain himself, knowing that it would pass, but instead of carbon dioxide a bout of vomit came from his mouth, splattering on the asphalt. And instead of chunks of food, stomach acid was offered from his stomach, which had been fed nothing in twenty hours.

Past, present, future, past, past, future, past present future, futurefuturpastpast, pastprese--

Gintoki landed on his knees, scraping them through and laughing the whole time, and in seconds the vomit was run with dark blood.

Angrily, he completely uncovered the gross blade from its sheath, and held it upward in defiance. But his shaking fingers soon unclasped themselves from their grip, and the sword clattered onto the ground, like everything else becoming covered in vomit and blood.

He was denied from his subconscious gates of Heaven halfway up the staircase.

“What the hell, what the hell, what the hell…” he repeated, surprised his voice came out, in a cold mantra that sounded much less like the curse than like a mash of sounds he’d parroted from more complex organisms, and in that moment becoming much less than human. One who failed to do any part in any team – he could not pay his bills and he could not hold a sword. Of the thousands of foes he’d faced, he’d always at least had that. With a skinny frame ascribed only to the poor and the hopeless, with trembling fingers that could not hold his birthright, the only pacifier he’d held since birth, and with empty eyes that averted themselves before accidentally gazing upon possible friends and possible foes.

A coward with no name, a coward with no place and no way to protect anyone. He was nothing but a rabble-rouser given a home out of pity, and a disappointment to the only person in this new age who had taken him in. Gintoki giggles, just a little bit. Then he stops. 

Otose lay prostrate in front of him, her face still twisted into a smirk, her cigarette not quite extinguished by the blood that flowed. It gathered around his ankles. 

Gintoki, still on his knees, tries to leap to her aid. The sword lay, abandoned and useless, to his right.

\--

“That’s the one, boss,” said the bearded man who looked much too scruffy to be anyone of any importance. Hairstyle was too important for a main character to have one so... unloved.

His boss, though in a bigger picture was of little more importance than his subordinates, crunched one of his cigarettes laying in his mouth with sharp molars. A bit of the dry chemical-scented paper encountered the holes and jewels embedded into his tongue.

The man scoffed haughtily. “Why’m I here, idiot? You told me there was a threat to our ‘family’. You took me to an alley far away from any sorta fightin’ action.”

“And there is!” His subordinate, a good bit shorter than him, looked up at his prickly black-haired chin desperately. “That man, he’s dangerous! I’ve never seen anything quite like him. At least, I aint think it possible before today that a man could pickpocket a sixty-five-centimeter blade!”

 


	2. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes rewards shine brighter than consequences.

Sakamoto plops down beside Takasugi; hoping to God he doesn’t wake any soldiers below the roof they sit, because they’d get hell for it. It’s Takasugi’s turn to watch tonight. But Sakamoto had seen his eyes as he left the campfire.

Takasugi’s whole body stiffens like he’d been tranquilized.

“W-“

“Don’t speak. I’ve seen your eyes.”

In those eyes, unquenchable greed.

//

 

Gintoki hears the animal before it strikes, and he lashes out with his free arm – the one that is not cradling an imaginary woman. By now he knows it is imaginary. He knows it for certain; but he can’t help himself, not when under his knees he tramples a hundred different faces of Otose, and the walls are made of her blood. He slams the creature against the wall; a habit, not a strategy. He wouldn’t have thought there was even a wall and not living – dying – tissue. His arms, his legs, his limbs are all excited to fight, though. Even with a goddamn hamster.

It wasn’t a hamster.

In a show of boredom – he’s gotten very good at intimidating his natural pallor when he doesn’t feel it in him – he stares at a scraggly man. “ _Fodder_.”

The man, somehow more offended at this than at his more-than-quick defeat, makes a sullen face. He gasps for air. Gintoki loosens his grip enough for him to breathe, and turns an ear for his soon-to-come posy. “My _name_ isn’t fodder, you scum. People have real names! Mine is –“

“Eh, eh, please shut up, fodder.” Gintoki had winced at the familiar routine. Didn’t want to hear the whole indignant-over-names-mistaken thingo another round over.

He noticed that the blood was gone, for now. His heart began to race despite himself. Otose’s name ran unevenly, millions of times in his head, the rhythm like one of an egg rolling. BA-dum, BA-dum.

“Why’d you attack me, hmm? Thought you were a little snake or something. Should have guessed. Snakes are even more skilled than you.”

“NAGISA!” At Gintoki’s silence, he breathed, as much as the stranglehold would allow him. “And –“

“Shut up, Nagisa,” a voice said from the shadows.

“But –“ Nagisa’s taut shoulders deflated like a balloon. So this must be his boss.

“I said, _shut up!_ ”

“A kindred spirit,” Gintoki said with an indifference he did not feel. More fodder. Behind his eyes a trillion corpses collapsed onto themselves, Otose’s eyes filled with nothing but spite and humor, even though she must hate him, the guard dog who could not hold a sword – or maybe it wasn’t the sword – he hadn’t had one last time.

The greasy, tattooed man set his greedy gaze on his. “So you _can_ fight, eh? Some exiled Joi member? Make the wrong decision as a teen? ‘Lil rebellious boy turned his hair white –“

His voice was overlapped with Gintoki’s uneven laughter. He frowned, like he might continue his practiced-in-the-mirror speech even throughout it, but finally died off. Gintoki stopped as soon as he did. “Goddamn, I’ve got places to be, so get to the point, alright?”

“I ought to kill you.” Now his eyes were shining with anger. Gintoki supposed he didn’t have the capacity to blaze like a flame, only be indignant when his boys didn’t follow his orders. But titles only matter if they match the person. “I want to – “his eyes drunk in Gintoki- “Recruit you.”

“Hmm.” Gintoki considered. Brushed his jaw with a hand, then let his palm rest under his jaw. “What’s the boss paying his lackeys to get free slaves?”

The man’s jaw clenched, and he remains silent.

Gintoki hums again, and lifts a thumb from his stranglehold over his attacker for a moment to trace his pale neck. Then his grip tightens, and tightens. Nagisa makes a pitiful squeaking noise.

Gintoki turns his head toward the boss, who is staring apprehensively at him, one hand on his belt. Gun…fancy.

“Now, tell me why you’ve attacked me,” Gintoki says, the crisp edges of his words making it sound like a bark. “It’s Otose, isn’t it? What’ve you _done_?”

“ _Who_?”

Nagisa’s tongue begins to loll. His boss finally thinks to be concerned. “Hey! Stop, now! Stop! That’s… valuable!” he shouts. "Stop! Stop! Wait! Stop!"

“Good God.” Gintoki mumbles. He cringes. Nagisa’s probably innocent-ish. But he won’t kill him. “Well, then?”

The boss locks eyes with Gintoki, anguish beginning to seep into his face.

Gintoki could imagine what he was thinking. He expected to make a good hearty profit, and instead was losing an opportunity _and_ losing his own merchandise. What a dumb chain.

 _What have you done with Otose_? He wanted to shout. He glanced at the discarded sword to his right. And it wasn’t as if he were convinced; he guessed that no madman was entirely convinced with himself. There would always be that niggling voice whispering to him, “wait”,”wait”, but one was mad because the conviction was stronger than the reason.

“I- I was serious. We wanted to recruit you!” With every word he began to speak more quickly, the piercings of his mouth bobbing up and down.

“Mm…I don’t think that I’m convinced.” He took a step toward the limp man shoved to the wall. He didn’t dare to grab the sword. _Otoseotoseotose._

“We have been watching you for a _while!”_

Gintoki glanced at him with little pity. With such contempt for others, Gintoki didn’t mind to be the one to break him.

Now the boss was thoroughly panicked. He looked left and right frantically, either for a sturdy can to whack Gintoki over the head with or for a guardian angel.

Gintoki continued his advance toward Nagisa. Now even his resolve to not kill him was shoved behind the name, that name, that blood still pouring through the recesses of his mind…

“We’re _offering you a job!”_ the man screamed.

That gave Gintoki pause.

“A job?” he said, the word feeling unfamiliar to his lips.

“Y- yes!” The man stared at Nagisa. Probably wondering if his merchandise was still breathing.

“With pay?”

“What do you take us for, barbarians?”

Gintoki glanced sidelong at Nagisa, and then back. “Yes.”

The boss began to explain rapidly, arms making sweeping motions to denote power, power, power.

An underground web of criminals. Who cared? Gintoki had his share. Cliché rankings…bosses…family…protecting what’s ours…better than those Joi traitors who ask for help from foreign countries… the new image of the samurai. Very boring topics, and Gintoki was tempted many a times to shut him up.

But a _job_ , that was interesting. That was exciting. Gintoki imagined taking home a paycheck to a dumbfounded Otose…Otose.

Gintoki rushed forward with curled lip, leaving Nagisa alone finally. He felt a twinge of regret for the boy. Bad business. He grabbed the collar of the ugly boss before he could blink. “What have you done with _Otose?”_

“Wh..wh…” He searched up and down like that would help him remember. “You mean…  you mean the bartender. We haven’t touched her! I swear!”

Now a disgusting hope was touching the “boss’s” pupils. He knew money had enticed his prey. “So you’ve reconsidered your quick judgement?”

“Shut up, druggie. I’ll come back here, when, and only when, I’m sure you bastards haven’t hurt the old lady. Then we’ll talk numbers.”

The boss threw his hands up. Apparently, his fear had humbled him, even if it had not taken the edge from his greed. Gintoki chewed at his lip thoughtfully, looking at the unconscious Nagisa.

Gintoki dismissed the thought from his mind. He could wait.

//

The only thing Gintoki remembered of the run home was a burning sensation in his limbs, and how _good_ he felt. When was the last time he had run? All that time staring at a door. Six months of his life being afraid. Six months of his life pastpresentfuture. Being afraid, despite himself. Hating the door.

When you ran, you didn’t have to look at anyone, and they didn’t have to look at you, even if it was a little gross to be moving… so… much. When you ran you could feel the wind again, even if it was an artificial wind of air rushing past you too fast. The buildings of the city always seemed to block that wind that had a taste. Electric fans just didn’t cut it.

He practically flew through the window. But he resisted the urge to come bounding through the door; he couldn’t afford it, no not yet. So he waited, a little hidden, at the window.

It seemed like hours.

And it dragged on.

His vision flashed with red.

They had lied.

What had he expected?

Otose was gone.

Otose was gone.

Otose was –

There.

Otose was there, slicing onions with quick speed at the kitchen, pouring them into a pot.

Cooking dinner.

A tidal wave was not the expression he needed for his relief; the natural disaster was too small to describe the crash, omnipotent relief cascading over his shoulders and draining his heart that was ready to burst with rage. Complete and concrete relief.

With no knowledge that Otose's own heart was clenched in regret. Wondering if she'd made the wrong decision, after all, as day turned to dusk and dusk turned to night, with no sign of a messy silverhead.  _He would not lie_ , she decided, at the very same moment that Gintoki rushed away, mind drunk off of hope.

//

Why did such lackeys, such fodder, need such an expensive car, Gintoki wondered. He reasoned with himself that, well, at least their organization had cash. Their ride was conspicuous, even as cars went, a smooth shade of black so black it had blue highlights, and windows tinted dark grey in a similar fashion.

Really, terribly obvious. But Gintoki knew that was probably their plan, their mojo. He’d seen many organizations like it, unfortunately. Standing out was a good way to intimidate other clans. The power that a name held. He didn’t even like cars. He’d rather have something cleaner, where he could feel that wind (even artificial wind) fill his teeth.

He found himself riding in the car.

He did have better judgement, he just didn’t want to use it. Pay, money, cash, was oh-so-tantalizing. Whatever horrors this job brought him were worth the outcome, and worth the satisfaction. He knew that they might have him kill a man or be killed. He’d also heard many good tales and fairytales.

Anyways, he wasn’t not thinking about the consequences, it was just that the reward shone much too bright to be ignored, or turned down.

From the other side of the car, Nagisa stared apprehensively and fearfully in his direction, but didn't meet his eyes, but Gintoki couldn’t be bothered to make amends right now. He would right his wrong later. Besides, he had already made too much of a scene stopping the stupid boss's rampage halfway to the boy's cheek... That arse who had fully intended to knock a tooth or two out, feeling the power he'd tried to put into it.

This was because they had arrived; the car had stopped, at the very least. Gintoki was both confused and horrified that it was in the middle of the street. His fears were confirmed when the now-silent boss showed him to a manhole. Gintoki could feel the sludge around his ankles already, hear squealing rats bathed in poop, making them even more disgusting. Gintoki was annoyed.

“I hate you Yakuza types,” Gintoki complained softly. “You’re too showy.”

But again, money was never to be ignored; money ruled the world.

Gintoki lowered himself into the rubber-black sewer.

 

//

“You’re terrifying, Tatsuma. How can you tell?”

Sakamoto tilted his head to snatch a gulp of beer, and the stars twinkled and twittered at him from above, little teenage attitudes watching from the night, all spinning their own light thousands of miles away.

“I don’t sus’pec I’m the only one who ever wondered why guilty people are afraid to meet their parent’s gazes. Or why bastards in love can’t stop.”

Takasugi was smiling, only so slightly, a little personal smile all to himself, because he’d only ever know the extent of its hate toward its person.

“I guess eyes have power.” Sakamoto finished slowly and plaintively.


	3. 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Worth is placed in the wrong places.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW, I woke up in a Gintama mood! Pretty long hiatus, please forgive me! I hope you still enjoy.

                Katsura balanced himself on the hilt of his sword, tracing the sleeping enemy with black eyes, a blacker smile. Gintoki thought he almost seemed to enjoy himself these days.

                “Zura,” Gintoki addressed him lazily, letting his fingers come to a rest over Katsura’s. His voice sharpened. “Is this what he had in mind?”

                Katsura’s smile faded, and he looked down at his own tattered sandals, the dirt and blood which caked his toenails. “No, Gintoki. But sometimes family disobeys family for their own good.”

                Gintoki sighed. Maybe he’d believe that, too, one day.

**

                Gintoki let his mind wander as his ankles became saturated with goo and gunk and poo. He wondered what Otose had planned for dinner. He wished he were home to eat it, even as the rank smell of the sewer scared away his appetite.

                The idiot who had led him here tried to make small talk. “So, uh, what brand of hair bleach do you use? I’d actually been thinkin’ of dying my hair myself. Ya know, it’s super stylish, especially nowadays...” Gintoki wasn’t sure whether he wanted to laugh or cry. He’d met men like the boss here before; the flaky, stupid, and greedy were the only types to change their personalities to fit their audience.

                “You were d _efinitely_ the tattle-tale in your class,” he thought aloud.

                “Huh?”

                “Nothing. My hair isn’t dyed. Get over it, ass.”

                The faint light of the pothole they’d entered through had faded to black hours ago, and they trudged on, following only the dim shine of Nagisa’s smartphone. For yakuza – gang – do-evilers – whatever the hell they wanted to call themselves – they were woefully unprofessional.

                “We’re approaching,” Nagisa whispered, his voice suddenly solemn.

                “So?” Gintoki sniffed, thoroughly sick of the stench, feeling the soreness of his legs. Walking through sludge was more taxing on his glutes than he’d expected. He felt a sudden wave of gratitude that this was only the _third_ time he’d crept around a sewer in his short lifetime.

                “So, it’s about time we’re judged,” the boss interjected.

                _The hell is that supposed to mean?_ Gintoki thought, but the words never touched his lips. There was _no one_ around, Gintoki knew that for sure. Even in the dark, his senses remained. But before he could protest, he couldn’t see – impossibly, his vision faded to blacker than the black of the sewer. And then, though no soul landed a blow on him, his consciousness failed him.

 

//

 

                Gintoki tried his best to avoid the bright, artificial light; he was a master of staying asleep until noon, and even Otose would marvel at his ability to snore whilst bright sunlight scorched his eyelids, begging him to get up. But soon enough, the harsh light had him scrunching his nose, blinking away the crust and sleep in his eyes. He wasn’t sure why the sun had been replaced by such an annoying imposter.

                “Hey, bitch! Hey, hot stuff! Hey, kid, get your ass off of the floor and show us what ya got!”

                A million voices rang through the arena – arena? – and he wondered what – who – the commotion was all about. Then – the freezing, marble floor, the harsh, chemical light, the raucous crowd – all of it dawned on him.

He finally registered his surroundings. He lay, stomach down, on the far right center of a huge marble arena. His kimono had vanished, replaced with a scant red toga. A million (or at least it seemed to him, but looking back, it might’ve been a few thousand) spectators jeered at him – and his opponent – practically begging for blood.

                Gintoki was somewhat amused, despite the situation, by their tastes for a dress-up party.

                Something, or someone, lay in the same position as him, on the opposite end of the arena. His hair had been shaved completely off, and was growing again in prickly blond streaks on his head. Gintoki watched as he lifted his head in confusion, underwent the same realization as him. The scary looking dude locked eyes with Gintoki.

                _This is ridiculous_ , he thought. Gintoki felt bad; all these people honestly thought he would bow down to some demented, almost hypersexual Roman cosplay.

                “Ladies and gentlemen,” a disembodied voice thundered. And then the serious tone abruptly shifted. “Anyone thirsty? Hungry? Pretzel stand is by the right entrance!”

                “Thirsty for blood!” some random girl shrieked. “Hungry for flesh!” another screamed, as if it had been rehearsed.

                “That’s what I like to hear!” the announcer responded. “Now, who’s ready to meet our meat?”

                The crowd went crazy.

                “Alright then! Now, here in the right corner, we have a young man who _voluntarily_ offered himself to our society! He’s fighting for his rank among us. Get a good look!”

                “Idiot! Shortsighted kid!” some jeered, with laughter in their voices.

                “Hair from a bottle, but he ain’t so bad looking, is he now? What do you think, guys? Will he survive?”

The crowd booed. Gintoki frowned.

“In the left corner, we have a girl we all know and love, right?”

The crowd screamed their discontent. _Girl_ , Gintoki thought, equally curious and frustrated. He hated fighting women, he hated having to pull his blows in concern.

“Know and hate, then! Well, she’s an undefeated badass, but with a bit too much of a mind of her own. The big man does _not_ approve of deserters like her!”

                Cheers of agreement shook the arena, and the announcer took a few moments to let them quiet down before proceeding.

                “Alright, alright, quiet down so we can hear the rules. Rule number one: no weapons.”

                Gintoki had guessed that much. He wasn’t even allowed decent covering, so why assume they would be civil and give them sparring gear?

                “Rule number two: you shall fight no longer than half an hour. If that time is exceeded, you both will die.”

                Gintoki thought a one-on-one fight that lasted longer than thirty minutes would end up killing one of them anyways. Muscles began to scream and burn after a good long battle.

                “And your final condition: this is a fight to the _death_ , so at least one of our _special guests_ won’t be leaving this arena! Anyone wanna kiss our guys goodbye?” Gintoki sighed - that was a bit harder, then; he couldn’t just surrender and hope for the best.

                A chorus of kissy noises echoed through the arena. The announcer, before Gintoki could get his bearings, began to count down. “Fight begins in 3…”

                Gintoki got to his feet. “2…” The girl with a shaved head, daggers in her eyes, climbed up to her own feet. She looked so very small.

“…1! Fight!”

 

Her eyes swayed back and forth like a pendulum, and at first Gintoki thought she might collapse; instead, she lunged forward, all the force bunching in her ankles and propelling her in his direction. The crowd gasped in anticipation. Despite her reputation, no one ever expects the girl to strike first.

She rushed forward very fast, and Gintoki almost missed his chance to sidestep. As her figure blurred past him, unable to stop her forward momentum, Gintoki’s arm shot out to catch her wrist.

                He leaned in very close to her ear. “ _Amanto,_ ” he hissed, eyes narrowing in disgust. No human ran that fast.

Her eyes, slate gray, met his, and she brought her lips into a snarl, showing pointed teeth. He tightened his grip on her wrist, fingernails digging into her soft skin. She looked more human than any other he’d ever seen, but he reasoned that only made her more dangerous. He resisted the urge to snap her small wrist.

She tugged, over and over, trying to release his grip. Apparently, she wasn’t too skilled in hand-to-hand combat. “I thought you were undefeated,” he wondered aloud.

The bald girl looked up at him, and with a final growl, vanished.

Shocked, he swiped the air where she had been with both hands, but they sliced through the air harmlessly. A tap on his shoulder from behind sent him reeling, and he spun around to see her behind him. She waved with an innocent, malicious smile.

_What the hell?_

                She vanished again, and the crowd cried out in approval. Gintoki thought they’d seen the little trick before. He rolled his eyes; he had no time for a stupid spectacle. All he wanted was to earn a fuckload of money and get back home in time for dinner. He wasn’t sure why that seemed to be so much to ask for.

                _I’ll handle this like my best boy, Naruto._

                He closed his eyes – for the second time today, they were failing him, so he supposed he had four other good senses to try out. _Three,_ he corrected. He didn’t wanna be known as the pedophile who licks his opponents. Maybe two, depending on how rank her sweat was.

                The vanishing thing was just distracting, anyways. He heard little feet pittling on the floor to his right, and he ducked as a blow swung out over his head. The curls which bounced on the top of his head pounded to the left. He heard her grumble in frustration, and he swept out a leg under where he _thought_ her legs would be. Sure enough, her form became visible, and she crumpled to the ground.

                Gintoki pounced on her, barely winded, and took both her wrists in his hands. He allowed most of his body to settle down on her torso. “There,” he said. “Now you can’t do the annoying disappear-y thingy.”

                “Who _are_ you?” she whispered, her eyes watering.

                The announcer, sounding slightly annoyed, cried out, “Now _that_ was quick, wasn’t it!” The crowd jeered in disapproval. “It’s alright, folks! The faster the take-down, the faster we get that blood a-running, hey?”

                “Sakata Gintoki. Hey, how do they expect me to kill you without a sword? Shred your neck with my teeth?” He opened his mouth, pretending to showcase his own canines. “Might take a few tries…”

                She mewled like a cat, and a tear ran down her face. “I don’t understand…Humans are always so disoriented…Please make it quick.”

                He lowered his jaw to her neck, just long enough that she began to gasp… then withdrew. “Relax. I’m not gonna kill you. How are we supposed to get out of this, though?”

                “I could kill _you_ ,” she offered good-naturedly.

**

                Gintoki knelt over the corpse, the last enemy standing, the proof of their victory. It felt so so _good,_ to be out there. He felt the adrenaline rush through his body and felt only deep, complete pride. Then a hand came to lay on his shoulder, and their long, gentle fingers stiffened. He looked up.

                “Gintoki,” Katsura half-said, half mumbled. “What have we done?”

                Gintoki followed Katsura’s line of sight, out to the piles of bodies which smoked and steamed and bled as far as the horizon would show. Gintoki looked down, wrenched his sword out of the final corpse.

                “We’ve won."


End file.
